My Boss Treated Me Badly Until That Afternoon in Her Office

I’d spent a full year arriving at the offices of Nodexa Systems before anyone else, a chip and semiconductor company that was growing fast in the financial district. My name is Camila Rivas, and I’m the executive secretary to the president, Renata Aldana. A full year putting up with her talking to me like I was a piece of furniture, correcting me in front of clients, asking for her coffee three times until it was “finally right.”

The previous secretaries had lasted weeks. Some, not even that. I wasn’t leaving. I was waiting.

Renata was ruthless with her employees and, at the same time, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Forty-two years old, black hair pulled into a tight bun, a mouth made for biting in silence, and legs she crossed under her desk as if she knew exactly where my gaze was resting. She had a habit of speaking to me without looking at me, as if the sound of my voice annoyed her. Every time she did, I clenched my jaw and thought about what it would be like to see her broken, with her cunt soaked through and that queenly mouth opening to ask me for more.

The plan had been taking shape in my head for months. A pill in her four o’clock coffee, an open hour in her schedule, and the rest of the floor empty on Wednesdays after five. It wasn’t complicated. It was a matter of patience and of not letting my hand tremble when the moment came.

That afternoon came.

“Renata, your coffee,” I said with my usual professional smile, setting the cup on the corner of her desk.

She didn’t even look up from the report. She moved her hand two centimeters, found the handle, and drank without seeing me. I stayed still, tablet pressed against my chest.

“Tomorrow’s schedule?” she asked.

“Meeting with the Hsinchu suppliers at nine-thirty. Lunch with the legal team. Call with the board at five.”

“Good.”

She took another sip. I kept listing things she wasn’t listening to. The afternoon light came in through the window of her office and lit the left side of her neck, right where her silk blouse opened a finger too much. She kept reading. I kept talking. The tablet I’d dissolved the pill in was discreet, tasteless, the kind that takes a few minutes to kick in.

I watched her blink twice in a row. I watched the pen slip from her fingers. I watched that always-so-upright head start to droop slowly forward until her forehead touched the leather of the desk.

“Renata?” I asked, just enough voice, the kind you use when you know no one is going to answer.

Silence.

I locked the door. I lowered the blinds. I turned off the intercom. I canceled her two pending appointments from the tablet, one with the excuse of a sudden migraine, the other by inventing an impossible meeting. I took thirty seconds to breathe before going to my desk and coming back with the case I’d been hiding under the file cabinet for weeks.

***

I settled her into her own executive chair. She weighed less than I’d expected. First I put on the headphones—mine, the ones I’d recorded in my own voice over several nights, with phrases designed to slip into the folds of sleep. Then I fitted opaque glasses over her closed eyes, with a looping hypnotic pattern. Only then did I inject into her thigh the contents of the syringe I’d prepared at home: a mild relaxant, enough to keep her floating in that in-between state where willpower loses its edge.

I tied her wrists to the armrests with black silk ribbons. Nothing that would leave a mark. I opened her legs with a padded spreader and secured her ankles to the chair legs.

“Ready, boss,” I murmured, leaning close enough to smell her perfume behind her ear. “Today it’s your turn to listen.”

I turned on the tablet and let the phrases start looping.

You’re mine when we’re alone. Your cunt obeys me before your head does. You want me to fuck you. You want it. You’re going to get wet for me.

I repeated each line in my own voice, whispering it into her ear while the headphones repeated it too. The words touched a place I had never reached with my gaze alone.

When I saw her lips moving silently, repeating what she heard, I knew the barrier had given way.

I loosened one button of her blouse. Then another. Then enough for the silk to open and reveal the white bra underneath, plain and unworthy of what it concealed. I lifted the lace slowly, revealing heavy, full breasts, with nipples already hard, thick, and dark even before my hand brushed them.

“Look at what you were hiding under that tailored suit,” I said softly. “Look at these whore tits, boss. And me bringing you coffee every day without being able to touch them.”

I bent down to taste them. My mouth closed over her right nipple, sucking with a hunger delayed by a year. My tongue drew slow circles around the areola, then broad licks, then the whole nipple between my teeth, tugging just enough to draw a moan from her. Her back arched in the chair with a rough sigh that wasn’t defensive. It was hunger. A hunger that had been locked up for years inside that woman.

I moved to the left nipple and did the same, slower. I bit it. I sucked hard, leaving the skin red and wet with saliva. With one hand I squeezed the other breast until my fingers sank into the flesh, feeling the whole chest harden beneath my palm.

“You’re all mine, Renata,” I told her against her skin. “All of you. And you won’t remember, but your body will.”

***

I talked to her like I never would have dared before. I told her what I thought every time she walked past me wearing that expensive perfume. I told her I imagined putting my tongue in her ass while she signed contracts. I told her what I thought of when she ordered me to bring her water without looking up: grabbing that tight bun, slamming her against the desk, and eating her cunt until she stopped giving orders for an hour. In a whisper, I told her all the things I’d imagined doing to her on that very desk for twelve endless months.

And she, behind those glasses, without seeing me, answered with short moans, with her mouth open, with her tongue peeking between her teeth.

I slid my hands up her thighs, pushing the fabric of her skirt aside until it bunched at her waist. Her stockings were thin, almost invisible. Her underwear, on the other hand, did no justice to the woman wearing it: white cotton, boring, the last thing I would have expected under a three-thousand-euro suit. I ripped it away with one motion. The fabric gave without protest. Underneath, her cunt was already shining with a wetness no relaxant could have manufactured. Pink, swollen lips parted, a bright thread of moisture running toward her asshole.

“Look how you’re leaking, boss,” I murmured, running one finger along her slit from bottom to top. “So wet, and I haven’t even started.”

I brought the finger to my mouth. It tasted like hot woman, salty, thick. I went back down and shoved two fingers into her at once. Renata shook all over within the ribbons and let out a thick, animal gasp that had nothing to do with the woman who corrected reports.

“That’s it,” I said, moving my fingers inside her, finding the spot up top with my fingertips. “Squeeze me, slut. Squeeze my fingers with that cunt.”

And she did. The inner walls closed around my fingers, pulsing, drawing inward as if they had a will of their own. I slid in a third finger. I opened her slowly, feeling the stretch, the yielding of the wet flesh.

I knelt between her open legs.

“Your mind still doesn’t know what’s happening,” I said, pressing my lips to the inside of her thigh, “but your cunt does. And your cunt is going to betray you.”

The first sweep of my tongue tore a muffled cry from her. Long, flat, from the entrance up to the clit, swallowing all her juices. The second made her legs tremble. I spread her outer lips with my thumbs to have her all exposed, pink and shining, and buried myself there with my mouth open. I sucked her clit between my lips, bit it just a little, ran the tip of my tongue over it in quick circles and then slowly, measuring her, reading her, discovering what made her shove her back into the chair and what made her pull against the ribbons around her wrists.

I shoved my whole tongue inside her, fucking her with my mouth while my thumb worked her clit. My face got soaked with her. I swallowed. I licked again. I dragged my tongue over her perineum, down to her asshole and traced that too, taking advantage of the fact that she was tied up and couldn’t close her legs. She let out a new moan, sharper, surprised, and her hips moved forward, looking for more.

“Ah, so the president likes having her ass licked,” I murmured against her skin. “I’ll remember that.”

I went back to her cunt. I slid in three fingers and curled them, searching for the rough spot on the front wall. I sucked her clit at the same time, hard, mercilessly, my tongue whipping over it while my fingers went in and out making a wet, obscene sound that filled the office. When I found the exact rhythm, she was already repeating my name through clenched teeth, not consciously, not remembering it afterward.

“Camila,” she moaned. “Camila, Camila…”

It was the first time in a year she had said my name. And she said it like that, with a slack mouth, a broken voice, her cunt opening for me.

“Come,” I ordered, driving my fingers to the knuckles. “Come in my mouth, boss. Now.”

The orgasm hit her long and hard, with a shudder that climbed from her thighs to the base of her neck. I felt her cunt clench in waves around my fingers, felt her clit pulsing against my tongue, felt a warm rush wash over my chin. I drank everything I could without letting go of her clit, stretching it out until her hips started shaking harder and the ribbons creaked against the wood.

When she stopped trembling, I pulled my fingers out slowly, a shining thread hanging from them, and brought the wet fingers to her mouth.

“Taste yourself,” I whispered. “Suck.”

Without opening her eyes, she parted her lips and licked them. Slowly. With the obedience of someone accepting something she still didn’t quite understand. She sucked my three fingers to the back of her throat, her tongue coiling around them, swallowing her own juices like a good little girl. I pulled them out with a wet sound. I ran my thumb over her lower lip and slipped it in too. She sucked it.

“Good girl,” I said in her ear. “We’re going to do this many more times, boss. And you still won’t know why your legs go weak when I walk into your office.”

I ran a hand over her still-pulsing cunt, slid two fingers in once more just to feel it clench again, and pulled them out shining. I wiped them over her nipples, leaving them damp with her own release.

***

I turned off the headphones and the glasses. I put everything away with a serenity that surprised even me. I buttoned her blouse, lowered her skirt, fixed her hair as best I could. I tucked the remnants of the white cotton into my bag, not as a trophy, but as a reminder. I freed her wrists and ankles, removed the ribbons, and packed them in the case along with the rest.

I sat in the chair on the other side of the desk, with a strip of aspirin in one hand and an unopened bottle of water in the other. And I waited.

“When you wake up, you won’t remember anything,” I told her softly, repeating it one last time in her ear. “But your body will. And from today on, when I say ‘good afternoon, boss,’ your cunt will remember what happened here.”

I touched her shoulder.

“Renata.”

She sat up abruptly, as if surfacing from a deep dream. She blinked twice. Looked around, disoriented, one hand on her forehead and the other pressing her thigh under the desk, as if something hurt in a way she couldn’t quite place.

“What time is it?”

“Five to five ten. You fell asleep over the papers. You asked me for an aspirin a little while ago.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, boss.”

I held out the blister pack and the bottle. She took them without really seeing me yet. She took a long drink of water. She ran her fingers over the back of her neck, over her wrists, as if searching for something she couldn’t quite find. She crossed her legs under the desk and uncrossed them again, uneasy, her face a little redder than usual.

“Cancel the rest of the day,” she said, her voice a little rougher than normal. “I’m going home.”

“Of course.”

She picked up her bag, adjusted her skirt with a quick gesture—and paused for a second with her hand there, as if she felt too much wetness between her legs—and walked toward the door. At the threshold, without turning around, she stopped again. Only a second. As if something circled in her memory and hadn’t quite emerged fully to the surface.

“Camila,” she said, still with her back to me.

“Yes, boss?”

There was a long pause. Her neck was tense, one hand on the doorframe, her thighs pressed together beneath her skirt.

“Good afternoon,” she murmured.

And she left.

I stayed in her office, my pulse pounding in my throat and the taste of her still in my mouth. I took the white cotton remnants from my bag, brought them to my nose, and breathed in slowly. They smelled like her, like expensive perfume and a wet cunt, like something that was mine and mine alone.

There would be four o’clock coffee tomorrow too. And the day after that. And the one after. And one day, when I whispered “good afternoon, boss” with the door closed, her cunt would remember before her head did, her panties would go damp in the middle of a meeting, and the papers on her desk would stay unread while she spread her legs over the wood so I could eat her again.